


Always In Love (With the Wrong Type)

by LordJixis



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Again: inspired by luchia's 'gnomon' which is a great read and available to buy, Blood, Bodily Harm, Drugs, Grenades, Guns, M/M, The start of something beautiful, check out gnobook or luchia on tumblr for more info, some rando is killed also rip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-02-16 17:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18696190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordJixis/pseuds/LordJixis
Summary: Grantaire does drugs (the hard kind, because he's never been a soft person) and Enjolras shoots people for change.This is how they meet.





	Always In Love (With the Wrong Type)

Grantaire is not Icarus and the sun is 92.96 million miles away.

And yet he's still melting.

The man in front of him doesn't give a shit. “Are you with him?” he gestures at the corpse splayed by his feet. Grantaire blinks. A moment passes. “Well?” he insists.

“Ah.” His eloquence is on display. He gets a loaded gun to his face for it. “No.”

The man shifts. Tilts his head. He doesn't believe him, but Grantaire has no reason to lie. Grantaire doesn't even particularly care if that gun goes off in his face, because being killed by the angelic demon in front of him is, quite probably, the best way he could go.

Seconds pass by. It's unbearably long.

“Why are you here?”

Granataire hums; smirks when it's obvious whoever's in front of him has reached his limit. Shrugs a bit. The gun goes off like a firework, bits of plaster raining down into Grantaire's hair. “I'm not joking.” he hisses, and Grantaire swears his hair (golden, because _why wouldn't it be_ ) is poofing up like an angry cat.

“He had some good drugs and a nice ass.” Again, Grantaire has no reason to lie.

Especially when the truth makes this angel look like that, like Grantaire is a rainbow and a puzzle and the most disgusting thing he'd ever scraped off his shoe. “You're high,” he deadpans.

And then the window explodes. Perfect timing, in all honesty, because there isn't really an answer to that. Yes, Grantaire is high. Of course he's high, there's fucking blow right there and his pupils were huge before the walking incarnate of beauty busted through the door.

The walking incarnate of beauty that's currently getting his arms sliced from the glass scattered on the ground. Red suits him, but Grantaire likes it a bit less when it's oozing from him. In fact, below the floating feeling that had taken at least a hundred dollars worth of drugs to achieve, anger is bubbling hot that someone would try to kill such a beautiful human.

He picks his way across the room. His feet are bare (where were his shoes? He swears they were on his feet a second ago.) so he minds the glass in a way that the other man seems to find ridiculous. “Are you insane? Get the fuck down, there's people shooting at us!”

Somehow, though the shooter seems to be the worst shot in the world, they hit the wine glass Grantaire had been sipping out of. He sighs. It was a vintage. His vague anger gets less vague and more defined, a hot swath of something burning beneath his chest.

He gets to his bag, has the joy of seeing impossibly blue eyes go wide when he pulls out a grenade. Has less joy when the man levels his gun at Grantaire for the second time in about five minutes. “Calm down, Apollo,” he says easily, trotting to the broken window.

He peeks out from it, twitching back when the frame gets blown to bits rather closer to his face than he would've liked. He blinks once, twice, and the splinters leave his eyes enough that he can focus. 

“Are you fucking – suicidal?”

“Sometimes,” he replies. The grenade is heavy in his hand, the heft familiar. His gun would've made a better choice, but seeing the shock on the other man's face had been worth it. He chances another peek, sees the glint of a scope this time. It's a bit higher than he can accurately throw, but the building's abandoned and structural damage is right up there with booze on the list of things he likes. There's a moment where he's waiting for the next shot, one that he can hear (really, how much effort is it to get a silencer?) but that evidently misses completely, and then he pulls the pin with his teeth (unnecessary, but he's hellbent on impressing the god that was still staring at him from the floor.) and chucks it across the street, right into an open window a story below the shooter.

He vaguely thinks about lighting a cigarette, but there's impressing the hottest man he's ever seen and there's copying every single action movie trope. The explosion rings out, the angel's incredulous face is illuminated by the flames, and Grantaire is still riding high on enough coke to kill a horse.

It's the best day he's had in a while.

He turns back to the man, hopes fervently that this isn't just some hallucination, and reaches out a hand. Miraculously, he takes it. Lets Grantaire help him up. Stares at their joined hands like he's seeing the sun for the first time: a bit of fear, a bit of awe.

“I'm Grantaire,” he says, debates kissing his hand. Figures, fuck it, and presses his lips to the mans knuckles. “It's a pleasure.”

“Ah,” he sounds dazed, but he doesn't grab his hand back. “I'm Enjolras.”

“Figures,” he says, and Enjolras looks at him. “You're the type to have a fancy french name that vaguely implies you're an angel.”

Enjolras yanks his hand back, flushes. “What's that supposed to mean?” he bites out, and it's supposed to be intimidating but it's really not.

“This is the start of something beautiful, Angel,” he says instead of answering.

“What?” he sounds hopelessly lost. It shouldn't be so endearing.

“You cut yourself up pretty bad.” He grabs Enjolras' hand again, is pleasantly surprised when Enjolras follows him without comment or struggle. “I'm sure that guy had some rubbing alcohol or something.”

He kicks open doors till one of them reveals a shower and tiled floor. The toilet is, surprisingly, clean. He guides Enjolras to sit on it.

Enjolras is silent as he grabs bandages and hydrogen peroxide. No rubbing alcohol, but he likes the bubbles peroxide gives you anyway. He hisses when Grantaire pours half the bottle on his arms. It puddles on the floor.

“You're making a mess,” Enjolras says eventually.

Grantaire shrugs. The puddle is a light pink, tinted with Enjolras' blood. It's actually kind of pretty. He tries to commit it to memory, because it would look beautiful in watercolors.

He picks out the few shards of glass he can find still lodged in his skin. Hopefully anything else will work its way out.

He wraps Enjolras' arms methodically. There's a brutal history behind every move – sometimes Grantaire feels like he's spent lifetimes bandaging up idiots. Himself included.

When he's done, Enjolras stares at his bandaged arms like he's never seen anything like them. “Thank you,” he murmurs, eventually.

“Thank me by letting me stay.”

“I don't live an easy life,” Enjolras counters.

“And I pulled a grenade out of my backpack and dealt with your hard life.”

“Ah.” A beat passes. “Alright then.”

He's coming down from coke and his feet are solidly placed in a puddle of blood and peroxide and it's the start of _something_.

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaaaaaaaaaa
> 
> Also tell me things about my writing. some dude I met told me that you can post like three erotica based stories a year on amazon's book thing and live off tht. Was he lying. can i even write sex. I would like that tho. but like. do you have to write well. I have written porn but never posted it because of a lot of reasons honestly  
> i am also very drunk while posting this because I hate it but all it's gonna do is hang around in the 'fuck you' files till I do and everyone has been nice on here and it would be nice to have some nice because Vietnam has been fucking me hardcore


End file.
